It's All About The Hair
by Dafni Laurel
Summary: Max and his great head of hair; short and silly ponderings.


Title: It's All About The Hair  
  
Author: Dafni Laurel  
  
Email: DafniLaurel@yahoo.com  
  
Summary: Max and his great head of hair.  
  
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Running his fingers through his hair, Maxwell Sheffield smiles at himself in the mirror. He has great hair, and he knows it. Each wave, each lock, passing through his fingers, silky strands sliding between his digits.  
  
Beginning the gesture over again, Max takes a little extra time to feather through the gray streak at the front. It began some years ago, and he'd briefly considered dying it, but he liked to think it added a bit of distinction to his countenance.  
  
Strolling now through the house, headed to his office, Max passes Niles, who pauses his dusting to watch his employer pass by. Wearing well- tailored trousers and a deep maroon sweater, Max spins on his heels to fetch an actor's headshot he'd left upstairs. Niles follows Max with his eyes and curses, yet again, not only his position in life, but his hair. Why couldn't he have had hair like Mr. Sheffield's, he wonders. It might have led him down another path - he'd have been a barrister for sure. Sometimes, he wants to take his feather duster and dust that gray streak right out of his head. For now, he'll just have to make do with cleaning the downstairs bathroom.  
  
On his dash towards the stairs, Max almost runs into CC, who's just come in the front door and is stepping into the living room.  
  
"CC, good, I'm glad you're here. I'll be right back; meet you in the office."  
  
Max trots up the stairs; CC watches. But she isn't watching his rear end, as you might think. She's watching his hair. The way it almost bounces, but not quite, with every step. She'd like the chance to run her fingers through that hair. She knows it probably won't ever happen - at least not for any reason she'd like to imagine. But she thinks it's good to have a goal in life. Her goal is Max Sheffield, and his thick head of hair. Their children would have great hair. Children? What was she thinking? CC didn't want children; it was bad enough to have Madeline, Bingham, and Gail around all the time. Shaking her head, she grips her briefcase a bit tighter and walks purposefully to Max's office.  
  
Returning with the headshot he'd misplaced, Max skips down the stairs, two at a time. Having just re-checked his hair in a mirror in the upstairs hallway, he's feeling particularly handsome. About halfway down the stairs, he sees Fran saying good-bye to Val at the front door. She shuts the door behind her best friend just as Max reaches the bottom of the stairs. Turning to Max, Fran looks him over, bottom to top, and landing her gaze on his head.  
  
"Mr. Sheffield, you have something in your hair."  
  
Seemingly looking to fetch out a piece of errant sweater fuzz or lint, Fran slides her slender fingers into the forefront of Max's hair, and, ever so slowly, caresses her hand through the rest of his wavy locks.  
  
It takes far longer than necessary, and Max closes his eyes halfway through the gesture, barely able to stop himself from groaning at how good it feels. His eyes snap open, however, upon hearing Fran's next statement.  
  
"Nope, you're good."  
  
He stares at her for a moment, but she's still looking at his hair. He finds his own eyes wandering to her thick tresses, and he flashes on what it would feel like to plunge his hands into her hair. Perhaps in a moment of passion between them. Almost drawn to follow through on his brief fantasy; he, instead, reaches out slowly towards her hair.  
  
"Miss Fine, your hair's a bit out of place."  
  
Max's fingers skim, then caress, Fran's hairline near her temple, where a tendril has strayed from its proper place. Tucking it behind her ear, Max again lets his fingers touch her skin, just skimming her neck before he withdraws his hand.  
  
"You know how much I hate that." She states, as she's being mesmerized by his touch.  
  
Fran's statement does nothing to mask the fact that she's enjoying very much what he's doing, and she ends her sentence by uttering what Max wouldn't allow himself; she hums her pleasure at the sweet, yet sexy, touch. Max's eyes dart to her face, where he finds her eyes closed. Suddenly aware of the intimacy of their touches, Max reflexively pulls his hand away and takes a step back, worried he's overstepped some invisible boundary between them.  
  
Fran, sensing his retreat, opens her eyes just in time to see Max run his fingers nervously through his hair. Oh, what she wouldn't do to have full time access to that hair. Casting her gaze downward, and pretending to pat down her misbehaving lock of hair, Fran touches her hairline where Max's fingers had just been.  
  
Simultaneously, Max and Fran sigh softly; and, for both of them, it's mixed with equal parts longing and frustration. Not certain enough of the other's feelings, but positive that now's not the time to explore anything that might relieve them of those symptoms, Fran and Max both turn and withdraw from the room.  
  
Fran makes her way upstairs, daydreaming of Max's hair, while Max slowly paces out the rest of the distance to his office, remembering the feel of Fran's fingers in his hair; it's become the chief reason he loves his hair.  
  
END 


End file.
